


no reservations

by professortennant



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Baking, Cooking, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-07-01 06:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15768492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: As a general rule, Jack makes a point to not date the staff. And then pastry chef Samantha Carter is hired and he knows he's about to get burned. Or, the time Jack was a Michelin-star chef, Sam is the pastry chef they hired, and they fell in love.





	1. no dating policy

**Author's Note:**

> because clearly what i need is another WIP. this is going to be a series of one-shots and drabbles set in this universe. all are connected and are loosely in chronological order. taking prompts for this universe, as always.

As a general rule, Jack makes a point to not date the staff–no waitresses, no line cooks, no managers. It keeps things clean and simple and if things go wrong, no one gets burned–pun fully intended. 

It’s a good rule and it helps him run his kitchen with authority and no drama. He barks at Daniel to pick up the pace on apps and praises Teal’c for his excellent front of house management and  _O’Neill’s_  runs just fine–he’s even got the Michelin stars to prove it. 

And then George Hammond hires pastry chef Samantha Carter whose bread comes out airy and soft, whose meringues are whipped to perfect peaks, whose kitchen-sink cookies and to-die-for desserts bring in a cult following of customers. 

It’s easy to ignore her at first (”I like women,” he smirks at her at their first staff meeting. “It’s  _pastry chefs_  I have a problem with.” She just quirks an eyebrow and stuffs a cookie in his face. And yeah, okay, she’s talented). But after a hard service–burned entrees and pissed off customers and a food critic who ended up with a lapful of wine–Jack’s tired and just wants to go home. 

But when he gets to the kitchen and sees a light on in the back corner, he frowns and follows his nose to find his pastry chef, barefoot in the kitchen– _his_  kitchen–and following a recipe out of a cookbook, humming softly to herself. 

He leans against the counter and clears his throat. “Your onions are burning and those bare feet of yours are breaking about a hundred health code violations,” he announces. She jumps about a foot in the air and turns, hand on her heart and blushes, trying to block his view of the cookbook on the counter. 

“Chef! I didn’t know you were here! I,” she scrambles for her kitchen clogs and he smirks at her flushed cheeks and disheveled appearance. He saunters over to her and stares at the cookbook and back to her. 

“Ramsay? You bring a  _Gordon Ramsay_  book into this kitchen?”

Her blush deepens but she doesn’t shy away from him. “I’m a pastry chef, Chef. I don’t–I don’t  _do_  cooking.”

He rolls his shoulders, getting the cracks and pain of the day out of his muscles and pushes his sleeves up, taking the hot pan from the stove and dumping it int he industrial sink. “Okay,” he says, eyeing the recipe she was trying to recreate. “Follow my lead, Carter.”

She perks up and sidles up beside him, looking eagerly at his long, lean fingers and the way it easily handles the chef’s knife, dicing through tomatoes, capers, and onions. “Yes, Chef.”

They spend the evening laughing and humming. At some point, a bottle of wine is opened, and they sip at expensive red wine that he knows he’s going to have to log with Fraiser in the morning. But the fragrant smell of butter and garlic and lemon and scallops waft through the kitchen and he finds that they work pretty damn easily together. She seems to anticipate what he needs next, more so than any sous chef he’s ever had. 

As they eat the pasta and scallops, he reaches over and brushes the droplets of butter sauce from her bottom lip and he really,  _really_  wants to lean over and kiss her to find out if her mouth tastes sweet like the wine they’re drinking. 

After dinner, they clean up, throwing the utensils and pans and plates in the industrial dishwasher and wiping down the stainless counters. It’s the wee hours of the morning and they both need to be in early for kitchen prep and the staff meeting tomorrow. 

They lock up the restaurant in easy silence and they linger by her Indian, their hands resting on her helmet on the back of the bike. He inches his finger forward to brush over her knuckles and she lifts her head, searching his eyes for any sign that he’s feeling what she is–that whatever this spark between them is, it’s going to spark and fan into flames. 

“Dessert!” he exclaims. She looks startled and he ducks his head, runs his hand over the back of his neck. “You should show me how you do that,” he gestures nonsensically. “That whole baking thing, Carter.”

He has a flash of her covered in flour and sweet dough and her mouth tasting like sugar crystals and vanilla and he  _wants_  that–really, really wants that. 

She bites her lip and looks down, thinking, before nodding. “Yeah, I think I can teach an old chef new tricks.” And before he can react, before he can be outraged at  _old_ , she surges to her tiptoes and plants a quick, searing kiss to his cheek. 

“See you tomorrow, Chef.”

He watches her ride away on a rumbling Indian and seriously reconsiders his ‘No Dating Staff’ policy.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam shows up at on Jack's doorstep at about 3:45am--when the sun is still sleeping and the city is quiet. Bakers are always the first among the city to rise and there's something about these hours that Sam loves. When he pulls the door open, he's dressed and ready to go but none too pleased to be up at this hour. She's entirely too chipper, greeting him with a bright, "Hello!"

But she at least had the decency to bring him hot, strong coffee from the shop around the corner and it's sweet and creamy in a way he would never confess to loving (and he wonders how she knew this was his preference). She bounces on her heels as he grabs his wallet and keys and then, seemingly unthinkingly, reaches up and smooths his hair down where it's sticking up in all directions from sleep. He flushes a little and definitely doesn't push his head up into her hand because he likes the feel of her hand in his hair. She seems to realize she's done something out of the ordinary and drops her hand, muttering a small, "Sorry." But he grins and reruffles his hair with a shrug.

And then she's offering him a helmet and a thick leather jacket and he's sliding on the bike behind her and they're whipping through the streets pressed together with the rumble of a motorcycle between their legs. She feels good in his arms--lean and in control--and he likes the way his hand looks splayed against her belly. But all too quickly they're at the restaurant and slipping into the kitchen with a hello at the crew working the early shift.

To his surprise, he finds that she's very hands on with her baking. In his experience, the head pastry chef delegated the day-to-day activities and instead locked themselves up in the kitchen and puttered around, experimenting.

Instead, she unloads the delivery truck and throws sacks of flour and sugar at him, tells him to wash the fruit for the fruit tart, tells him to grind almonds and cut chocolate. All the while, he watches her closely, watches as she mixes doughs and forms pastries and kneads and folds and makes magic from butter and flour and sugar.

The sight of her strong, capable hands punching dough, the muscles in her arms flexing, and her eyes bright and engaged is frankly breathtaking and he almost nicks himself during a rough chop of some pecans.

"Okay, Chef, get over here."

He takes his place next to her at the work bench and raises an eyebrow. "Do i get to learn now?" he asks sarcastically. He hasn't worked this hard on the prep line since culinary school and he's anxious to be the center of her attention--for however long she will give it to him.

She sticks her tongue out at him but throws him a block of frozen butter and cold dough. "Puff pastry," she announces dramatically, "is one of the hardest of all the pastries to make. And today, you're going to do it."

He leans forward on the stainless steel table. "You know, Carter, when  _I_ taught  _you_ , it was fairly basic. You're throwing me in the deep end."

She pushes the butter and dough at him. "I'll be here the whole time--a life boat, if you will, Chef. I just thought you could handle it," she says, face innocent but her tone teasing.

He pulls the materials towards him and pushes up his sleeves. "Teach me."

She walks him through rolling out thin sheets of butter and encasing it in even thinner dough, folding and rolling and chilling. Over and over and over again. While the pastry chills for twenty minutes or so in between folds and rolls, Sam makes them coffee and strolls over to the work bench he was at all morning and inspects his fruit cuts, nodding approvingly. He teases her about being a perfectionist and she just sips her coffee.

"A perfectionist with a Michelin star."

Well, he can't argue that.

Eventually, they have puff pastry (and Sam covers his hands with hers, helping him adjust his hold on the rolling pin and patting down the cool pastry and he admires the way their hands fit together, the way her pale skin contrasts against his tanned skin). Jack has sugary fingers that he licks without thinking, remembering a time as a boy he would bake with his mom and she would encourage him to lick his fingers and the spatula and the bowl and--well, anything that had an inch of batter on it.

Sam scolds him and tells him to save his licking for when he's at home. She blushes hot at her words and his raised eyebrow and mutters, "You know what I mean."

It's all too easy to imagine Samantha Carter, his home, and licking.

But he laughs at her stuttering and flushed skin and she smacks him with a kitchen towel ("Hey! I'm your _boss_ you know." "Trust me, I know.") and tells him to grab some butter from the freezer. He pulls open the freezer, still smiling, and stops in his tracks.

"Carter!" he bellows sharply, grabbing the package from the freezer and turning to face her. "Why are we making puff pastry, the 'hardest of all pastries' if I remember correctly, if we have a case of it pre-made in the freezer?"

Sam bites her lip and ducks her head, hiding her laughter. She checks her watch with an exaggerated motion. "Oh! Looks like it's time for staff meeting."

He watches her go past him, leaving him standing there with pre-made dough. "You're going to be late and you're going to ruin that dough if you don't get a move on, Chef," she says, breezing past him and patting his arm. 

"You're a terror, Carter."

"A terror with a Michelin star!" she calls out over her shoulder, laughing.

He's never been happier to have been played.


	3. baking emergency

Sam was in the middle of a very pleasant dream in which she raced to the stars and found out the moon was, in fact, a Moon Pie--her hand digging into the chocolatey, marshmallow surface--when the buzzing and bright, flashing light of her phone on her bedside woke her up. 

She fumbled around, pushing herself up onto her elbow, and raising the phone to her ear with a sleepy, “Hello?” 

“Carter! I need you!”

Sam blinked into the darkness of her bedroom and then pulled her phone from her ear, staring down at the phone confirming that it was indeed Jack O’Neill’s voice telling her at nearly midnight that he needed her. 

She heard him holler her name again and she hastily lifted the phone back to her ear, shaking the last vestiges of sleep from her brain. “Chef?”

“Carter! Baking emergency. My place.  _Now.”_ There was a pause and then: “Please.”

Sitting up more fully, throwing the covers from her and swinging her legs to the floor, she cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear. “A  _baking emergency_? What the--”

“Sam,” he interrupted, voice suddenly losing its panicked quality and turning soft and desperate. “Please. I’ll explain when you get here.”

She didn’t need to think twice.

“I’ll be there.”

* * *

When she arrived at his doorstep just past midnight, backpack slung over her shoulder stuffed with baking essentials and decorations, wearing dark, comfy jeans and an oversized  _Bakers Gonna Bake_  t-shirt (a Christmas gift from her goddaughter, Cassie, that she hadn’t been able to toss), Sam didn’t know what to expect. 

What she didn’t expect was renowned chef Jack O’Neill opening the door, covered in icing sugar, with a small boy--maybe eight years old, she suspected--peering around from behind him. 

“Carter, thank god.”

He ushered her in, taking her backpack from her and smirking at her outfit. “Nice shirt.”

She raised an eyebrow and, without thinking, lifted a finger to his face, dragging a line through the white sugary powder. “Nice makeup.”

The little boy laughed behind his hands and she turned his attention to him, squatting to her knees so she was eye level with him. “Hi,” she said brightly. “I’m Sam.” She stuck out her hand and grinned when he took it, confident and assured. 

“Hi, Sam. I’m Charlie.” He looked up at Jack and then turned a worried gaze to Sam. “My dad says you’re gonna help us.”

Sam sucked in a breath at Charlie’s words. She suspected the moment she saw the little boy’s brown eyes and unruly hair, but hearing that Jack had a  _son--_ a son she knew nothing about--was a shock. 

She supposed, after all, they did barely know each other. She’d only been working at  _O’Neill’s_  for a few months. But still, she thought there had been  _something_  brewing between them and the knowledge that he was holding something from her stung. 

“Sam?” Jack asked hopefully. “We’d really, really like it if you could help a couple of inept pastry chefs out. Right, Charlie? Like we practiced,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth, nudging Charlie with his shoe. His son snapped into an immediately contrite and pitiful expression, eyes wide and pleading and hands folded in front of him. 

“ _Please,_ Sam?”

Sam stood in the foyer of the O’Neill house and looked at both O’Neill boys, their bottom lips sticking out and quivering in an identical, practiced manner. She bit back a smile and took a breath to calm the sudden racing of her heart. 

She shook her head and laughed softly at their antics, rubbing her hands together, excitedly. 

“Let’s get to the kitchen then, boys.”

* * *

The kitchen was less of a kitchen, she thought, and more of a deserted battleground. The surfaces were covered in flour and sugar and thick glops of butter and splashes of milk. In the deep kitchen sink, a sizzling tray of blackened  _somethings_  were scorched and stuck to the pan.

She turned to face Jack, hands on her hips and mouth agape. “ _What_   _did you do?”_

Charlie and Jack shrug helplessly, wearing identical sheepish grins. "Well, Charlie forgot to tell me--”

“I did tell you!”

“He  _forgot_  to tell me his school had a bake sale tomorrow!”

“Sam, I did tell him.”

“Anyway, so we tried to make chocolate chip cookies and--”

“And dad  _burned_  everything.”

“Hey, squirt, can you let the adult in the room talk, please?”

Sam watched in amusement as father and son bickered back and forth and finally, she stepped in. “Okay, okay, time out.” Both O’Neill’s looked at her like a referee and she stepped forward to take her backpack from Jack’s shoulder.

“So, we need a quick baked good before tomorrow morning, right?”

Charlie nodded and she smiled at him, opening the front zip to her backpack and pulling out a box of colored gels. She showed them to Charlie and raised an eyebrow. “Then let’s get baking.”

Sam stood and surveyed the state of the kitchen and turned to Jack. “Chef, do you think you can make your kitchen usable again?” 

Jack rolled his eyes but swiped the sponge and towel off the counter and began wiping down the work surfaces of his kitchen. Sam watched the lean muscles in his arms work for a second, flexing and stretching, the veins in his forearms and biceps momentarily distracting her. 

With a little shake of her head, she turned back to Charlie and, with a hand on his shoulder, guided him back to the kitchen table, where she dumped the contents of her bag out onto the surface. 

“Okay, Charlie! I’ve got the basics that any  _real_ baker needs: flour and sugar and--”

Jack interrupted her. “’Fer cryin’ out loud, Carter! I’ve got flour and sugar! Who do you think I am?”

She turned to face him and raised an eyebrow, tone light and innocent. “I don’t know, Chef. The kind of person who knows how to make chocolate chip cookies, maybe?”

He scowled and resumed scrubbing the counters, wiping flour and butter into his palm and depositing it in the sink. Once more, Charlie laughed and Sam winked at the little boy. 

“Now,” she said, returning her attention to the matter at hand. “Do you like Playdough?”

Charlie looked confused but nodded. “Yes,” he said uncertainly, dragging out the syllable. 

She beamed at him. “How do you feel about making Playdough cookies?”

The little boy lit up before her, bouncing slightly in his seat and eyes widening. “ _Cool! Yeah!”_

Jack came to stand between them, ruffling his son’s hair. “Okay, folks, the kitchen is ready for use. The KitchenAid is washed, the oven is pre-set for 350, and we are your disposal, Chef Carter.”

Sam beamed at them both and reached up to tie her hair back. “Then let’s go.”

For the next twenty minutes, the three of them filled the kitchen with the sounds of chatter and laughter as Sam and Jack helped Charlie measure out sugar and butter and flour. Sam and Charlie watched as Jack juggled eggs before showing off and cracking them one-handed into the sweet dough. 

“Show off,” she mutters, and beams when Jack nudges her shoulder with his. Between them, Charlie peers into the mixing bowl, watching as the sweet sugar dough comes together. 

Sam turns the mixer off and dumps the dough onto the floured work surface and instructs Charlie to dip his fingers into the flour, flouring his fingertips and palms.

“Why?” he saws, smiling at the feel of his fingers pressing into the cool powder. 

“It stops the dough from sticking to your fingers,” Sam explains, reaching her own hands into the flour. 

Feeling mischievous, Charlie flicks his hands at his father and giggles when a cloud of flour settles into his hair. Jack watches in shock as Sam and his son high-five, a new cloud of flour exploding and settling over all of them. 

“Traitors,” he says through a grin.

Together, they split the dough into four separate batches (Sam has to bat both Jack and Charlie’s hands from the dough as they pluck little pieces off and pop them into their mouths) and Sam pulls the little bottles of food gel and she lets Charlie pick the four colors to drop into the dough. 

By the end of the evening, all three of them are working at pulling and shaping the different colored doughs. Jack is hard at work on a set of mini-airplanes (”W-what  _are_  those, Chef?” “What do you mean, ‘What are they?’ They’re airplanes!” “If you say so, Chef.”).

Charlie makes little multicolored baseballs and footballs, happily telling Sam all about his little league team. “Maybe you can come to a game with dad?” he asks innocently. Sam freezes and looks over the little boy’s head to meet Jack’s eyes--Jack, who is staring at her intently, whose hands are frozen in the dough and waiting for her response. 

She grins, tentatively, and raises an eyebrow.  _Is that okay?_

He nods, hands resuming his work in the dough, cheeks a little hot.  _Of course._

The wordless communication between them, ever present in the kitchen at work, translates well outside of it, apparently. Sam turns her attention to Charlie and nods, nudging him with her hip. “I’d love that, Charlie. Thanks.”

He beams at her and then sees what she’s making: beautiful, intricate flowers. “Wow, Sam!”

Jack peers over his son to see what Sam’s doing and shakes his head. “Now who’s the show-off, Carter?”

She shrugs and sticks her tongue out at him--momentarily distracting him with the sight of her pink tongue. 

Sam grabs the stack of baking sheets and rubs them down with butter to prevent them from sticking. 

“And now,” she announces with a flair. “We put these on the tray and bake ‘em and we’re done!”

As a unit--a mini prep line--they transfer the brightly colored sugar cookies to the baking tray and pop it into the oven. 

“Baking emergency over!” Sam announces triumphantly, the oven door slamming shut behind her and the O’Neill boys staring at her in awe.

Yeah, she’s good.

* * *

 

Later, when the cookies are cooled and Charlie is passed out on the couch after giving her a sleepy high-five and making her promise she’ll show him how to make those cookie flowers and come to his little league game and come over next Saturday and watch  _The Mighty Ducks_  with him because, “Sam! How have you  _not_ seen it?,” Jack walks her to the front door. 

It’s nearing almost two o’clock in the morning and yet she feels wide awake, something about the O’Neill household and the rush of a late-night bake. 

“So,” Jack starts, hovering by the open front door. “Thanks for coming to save the day, Carter.”

She ducks her head and adjusts the backpack on her shoulder, her supplies safely packed up and a baseball and airplane cookie from the O’Neill’s wrapped up safely for later. 

“It wasn’t a problem, Chef. You can call me at midnight any time.” Her eyes widen and she hastily adds, “For baking emergencies, I mean.”

His eyes are light and teasing as he nods. “Of course,” he says solemnly. “Baking emergencies.”

His eyes drift to her lips and her heart skips a beat, her hand tightening on the strap of her bag as he lifts a hand towards her face, a callused finger brushing over her cheek. 

“Flour,” Jack explains, his finger rubbing over the curve of her cheek and coming away with a touch of white powder. She wonders if he could feel her heart pounding through her skin, feel her skin flushed with heat and anticipation of an entirely different touch. 

“Thanks,” she murmurs, voice husky.

There’s a silence that falls over the two of them and she’s struck with the thought that this is starting to feel like the end of a date--the awkward silence, the rapidly narrowing space between them, a fun night coming to an end. 

“Well,” she starts reluctantly. “I should go.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, stepping back just as reluctantly and opening the door wider. She flashes him a grin and steps out onto his doorstep. 

“See you Tuesday, Chef.”

He nods and leans against the door, watching her disappear into the night. “Hey, text me when you’re home safely,” he calls out after her. 

She rolls her eyes and waves a hand over her shoulder. “Yeah, sure, you betcha!”

He watches her until she’s safely in her car and watches as she disappears down the street and around the corner, finally closing the door and returning to the living room to scoop up his son and put him to bed.

Twenty minutes later, when he’s laying in bed and staring at his phone, willing her to text him and let him know she’s safely home, his phone lights up brightly.

It’s from Sam: A picture of a brightly colored airplane cookie with a large bite taken out of the wing. Beneath it, her message reads:  _Home safe and your cookie tastes great. We’ll make a pastry chef of you, yet._

He grins and types out a response. 

_I don’t need to be a pastry chef. That’s what I have you for, Carter._

There’s a half-second delay and then his phone beeps again, another response from her: a single, smiling, blushing emoji. His thumb traces over the smiling face and he thinks about her smile as she helped his son with a late-night baking project, her smile as she teased him about puff pastry and burned cookies, her smile as she looked up at him from beneath a streetlamp and touched him softly.

He couldn’t wait for his shift Tuesday.

 


	4. butterflies

Sam spends the weekend after she leaves Jack and Charlie behind in a cloud of icing sugar and laughter staring forlornly at her phone and willing it to beep with a message from him, willing herself to think of something relevant to text him. 

 

She stress bakes and works her feelings into the doughs and pastries she whips up. With each thought of Jack O’Neill’s smile and eyes and laughter and the teasing lilt to his voice, she kneads the sweet cinnamon dough and cuts the butter into flour, pressing and rolling and patting. 

 

By the end of the weekend, her phone lays forgotten, the butterflies in her stomach that erupt every time she thinks of him are well and truly and wrangled, and she has enough bread and sweet pastry to open her own bakery. 

 

But when she strolls into _O’Neill’s_ for the daily staff meeting and Jack isn’t sitting at the table laughing and ribbing Daniel, the disappointment that flares in her stomach is sharp and stinging. 

 

She drops the bag of baked goods into the center of the table (her contribution to the meal) and plops next to Teal’c who is stoically organizing and reorganizing seating charts and planning changes in staff procedures to ensure a smooth, meditative front of house experience.

 

“Teal’c, where’s Chef?”

 

Her friend reaches for one of the fruit tartlets she’s brought. “He is sick, Chef Carter. Both he and his boy, I believe.” He punctuates the news with a hearty bite into the dessert and hums appreciatively at the tangy sweet taste and crisp pastry. 

 

She grins at his praise. Teal’c isn’t much for words but, to her delight, he devours the rest of her offering. Sam frowns at the thought of Jack being sick enough to not come into work. In the short time that she’s worked at the restaurant, she’s seen him come in during torrential downpours, walked to work when his car has broken down, and worked when the restaurant was closed.

 

“It must be bad if he didn’t come in,” she muses and Teal’c nods in agreement, reaching for another tart.

 

The meeting passes quickly and, without Jack to guide them through a new menu, they recycle last week’s. It’s good news for her—the menu last week focused on sorbets and ice creams and the bulk of the work will be waiting for the machine to churn out silky smooth confections. 

 

Hammond dismisses them and she and her staff retreat to the kitchens where she directs her team to replicate the desserts from last week while she supervises. Her thoughts keep turning back to Jack and Charlie, at home and sick and alone, and she itches to be there with them.

 

The evening spent in the warmth of his kitchen, his son explaining to her the rules of soccer, the smell of crisping cookies and caramelizing sugar, and through it all, Jack’s easy, warm smile—it’s enough to send the butterflies fluttering in her stomach and it hurts to think of them feverish and sick.

 

The decision, then, to sheepishly ask sous chef Daniel for help ends up being an easy one. The young chef looks surprised when Sam enters the savory end of the kitchen, but a wide grin stretches across his face when she makes her request.

 

“I just know the basics,” she admits. “But I want it to be _good.”_

 

Daniel nods and gathers the ingredients—chicken stock, onions, celery, carrot, and a big bundle of herbs. They’re going to make the best chicken noodle soup the O’Neill boys have ever tasted in their life.

 

Sam insists on contributing to the soup and so while Daniel gets the base going, butter and stock and aromatics sizzling together in a tall, deep soup pot, she sets to work on making her own noodles, flour and water and salt and egg coming together easily and familiarly. 

 

In the same way that she poured her frustrations and feelings into her breads over the weekend, she pours her heart and concern into the noodles, kneading and pulling at the noodle dough.

 

Once the noodles were cut and drying, reading to be dropped into the simmering soup, she turned her attention to the accompaniments: bread. It was a simple fact that soup couldn’t be served without bread and she flashed back quickly to being sick herself as a young girl, her mother bringing her fresh-baked bread and spiced soup.

 

There wasn’t time for a full yeasted dough—not if she wanted to sneak from the kitchens a little early to get to his house in time. She settled for a quick-bread and deftly mixed together flour, water, salt, and the required rising agents.

 

This type of baking—scientific shortcuts that yielded delicious results—was her favorite type. In no time, her bread mixture was shaped and scored and thrown into a scorching hot oven, well on its way to rising and crisping. 

 

She checked on her soup and nodded appreciatively at Daniel as the salty, herbaceous stock warmed her on its way down to her stomach. It was perfect and she had a giddy sense of anticipation as she carefully ladled the soup into a large container and wrapped her quick-bread in a cloth. 

 

Before she set out on her home visit, she checked in with her staff and was pleased to see they had completed their task quickly and efficiently. So it was with no guilt at all that she slipped out the back door of _O’Neill’s_ and set off for a different O’Neill’s and hoped that her appearance—that _she—_ was wanted there.

 

___________________

 

The momentary hesitation she felt upon arriving on Jack’s doorsteps was immediately alleviated when the door opened to reveal and adorably disheveled and miserable Jack O’Neill. Wrapped in a thick, quilted blanket and barefoot, dressed in oversized comfy looking sweats, and skin flushed with fever, Jack looked less like an intimidating executive chef and more like a lost puppy.

 

“Sam?” he croaked out, squinting against the bright light of the sun. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard through the grapevine you and Charlie were pretty sick, so I come bearing gifts.” She held up the soup and bread in her hands and was pleased when Jack sagged in relief. 

 

“I’ll talk to the Teal’c-shaped grapevine tomorrow about privacy,” he groused, stepping aside and wordlessly inviting her in. “But I’m glad you’re here. We were just realizing how hungry we are.”

 

Sam frowned after him and followed him into the kitchen and placed the soup and bread down on the counter before peering around the corner into the living room where Charlie was passed out on the couch, just as swaddled in blankets as Jack was.

 

She sighed and turned back to the elder O’Neill and raised her hand to his forehead without thought, feeling for a temperature. He hissed at the contact and she was startled to find how warm his skin was. “Cold,” he complained, tugging the blankets up higher around his shoulders.

 

“You’ve got a fever.”

 

He gave her a wry look. “I _know_ , Carter. That’s why I’m here and not at work.” Looking over her shoulder at the soup and bread, he turned hopeful eyes on her. “Please tell me you made the bread and, uh, _someone else_ made the soup.”

 

“Hey!” she said indignantly. “I’ll have you know I’ve been getting much better.”

 

He laughed and started unpacking the soup and pulling down bowls for himself and Charlie and Sam. “I would hope so, you’ve had a good teacher.”

 

Even through the hoarseness of his voice and the sickly pallor of his skin, Jack O’Neill in a teasing, flirtatious mood was enough to send her heart beating faster. 

 

She couldn’t help but tease back. “Oh, the best.” She watched as his chest puffed out proudly and he ladled the steaming soup into the bowls. “That Gordon Ramsay cookbook is really, _really_ helpful.”

 

“ _Ouch_ , Carter.” He pushed the now-filled bowls towards her. “Way to kick a guy when he’s down.”

 

Rolling her eyes, she batted him away from the bread, pulling out a bread knife and deftly slicing thick, fluffy pieces for them. “Go sit down,” she instructed, assembling the bowls and bread in her hands and nudging him towards the living room. 

 

“You want to wake Charlie up for this?”

 

They both looked over at the pile of blankets that surrounded the young boy, soft snores emanating from somewhere beneath the covers. Jack’s face softened as he looked at his son and he shook his head, “No, let him sleep.”

 

Taking their seats on the long couch, Sam passed him a bowl of soup and a crusty piece of bread. “Daniel helped,” she admitted as he took a hearty spoonful of noodles and chicken and broth. “But I made the noodles and bread.”

 

He made a satisfactory groan at the first taste of the soup and his head lolled back against the couch, eyes closing in bliss. Sam felt her skin flush hot as she watched his throat bob as he swallowed, watched the cords in his neck flex and stretch as he chewed. 

 

“This is damned delicious, Carter.” 

 

Her cheeks pinked at the praise—after all, he _was_ still technically her boss and it felt good to know she’d impressed him, even if it was just chicken noodle soup and bread. 

 

As he continue slurping down the soup, Charlie stirred on the couch next to them. Jack sighed and, with obvious effort, tried to get up from the couch to comfort him. She put her hand on his knee, stilling his movements. 

 

“Eat,” she commanded. “I got him.”

 

Feeling his eyes on her, Sam knelt beside Charlie and tugged the blankets up over his shoulders a little tighter and smoothed a hand over his hair, hushing and soothing him the best she knew how. Under her light touch, Charlie settled and his snores filled the room once more. 

 

When she turned back to Jack, the soup was gone and he was staring at her intently, eyes shining with something soft and simultaneously sharp and probing. She felt like she had passed a test she didn’t know she was taking. 

 

“Thank you,” he said softly, voice husky and hoarse. Whether it was from the sickness or the sight of her caring for his son, she didn’t know. 

 

Without thought, she reached for him, sliding her fingers into his hair and stroking her thumb along his temple in a soothing motion, hoping to chase away the last of the fever and sickness coursing through him.

 

“Anytime.”

 

His eyes fluttered closed and his head lolled to the side, pushing more insistently into her hand and she laughed slightly before withdrawing and making a move to collect his now-empty soup bowl.

 

Jack grabbed her hand, long fingers wrapping around her wrist, and stopping her from walking back to the kitchen, walking away from him. “Sam,” he rumbled. “Seriously, thank you.”

 

She looked down at him then, eyes glassy with sickness and thankfulness, lips plush and pink, warmed through from the soup, and a few days’ worth of scruff on his chin. Overcome with affection for him, she swiped out her thumb over his lip, catching a stranded droplet of soup that still clung to him. His eyes went dark at her touch and she blushed. 

 

Standing and holding the soup bowl in front of her like a shield, she smiled brightly at him, hoping that the brightness of her smile would mask any other emotion—longing, affection, attraction—that may be showing through. 

 

“Jack,” she echoed. “Seriously, anytime.”

He watched her disappear into the kitchen and she collected her thoughts as she deposited the soup bowl into the sink and rewrapped the bread and put the soup into the refrigerator. There was enough there for Jack and Charlie for dinner and she was glad that, even though she had to return to _O’Neill’s_ for service, a part of her would be staying behind to take care of them. 

 

Grabbing her purse, she checked on the O’Neill boys in the living room and found Jack passed out once more, blanket pulled tight around him and head facing his son, ready to spring into action. 

 

Her heart softened at the sight and she fought the urge to join them both, to tug them into a big bed and wrap them up and keep them safe and healthy. But they weren’t one of her pastry doughs in which she could pour her love and affection into—but maybe, one day…

 

Shaking her head at the intrusive thought, she scribbled a note to Jack and drew a quick picture for Charlie, promising him that she’d attend one of his soccer games, soon, and then quickly and quietly left the O’Neill residence and headed back for work. 

 

The butterflies that she had worked so carefully to wrangle over the weekend flew freely in her stomach. 


	5. a no good, horrible, very bad day

Samantha Carter’s no good, horrible, very bad day starts with a speeding ticket as she races towards _O’Neill’s_. She’s more than thirty minutes late to the team meeting and when the officer pulls her over, she knows she looks a mess: wild hair and hastily applied makeup and flushed cheeks. 

 

The officer asks her with a raised eyebrow why she was going more than twenty over the speed limit inside the city. She could explain that her boss is a ridiculously hot, Michelin-starred chef with hands she dreams about—literally. She could explain that she was in the middle of a dream—Jack’s lips on her stomach and thighs and hips and clit; Jack’s hands on her breasts and ankles and inside her; Jack’s kisses trailing over her neck and jaw and lips. 

 

She could say that dream left her reluctant to wake but when she did she was panting and wet with her hands between her legs and _Jack!_ on her lips. 

 

Instead, she sighed and took her ticket—another one that found itself tucked into her side saddle with a stack of other outstanding speeding tickets—and hurried the rest of the way to work.

 

(And, to her credit, she managed to only daydream about Jack’s mouth and hands at every other stop light.)

 

For a brief, shining moment upon entrance to the restaurant, Sam thought her day may be taking a turn for the better. Aside from a disapproving glare from Hammond, Jack is grinning at her from his position in the middle of the table and clearing a place for her on his right, pushing Jonas Quinn aside thoughtlessly.

 

She takes the offered seat gratefully and forces down a dry swallow when Jack leans over and grins at her, eyes sparkling. “Morning, sleepyhead,” he teases, tapping the face of his watch with a pointed look. 

 

A sheepish shrug of her shoulders and a muttered, “ _Overslept,”_ is her only answer, her eyes carefully on the plate of food he assembled for her. It warms her when she sees he’s pulled her an extra stack of pancakes and a bowl of fruit—just strawberries and blueberries; no cantaloupe—just the way she likes.

 

Her face is carefully blank and there’s only a hint of residual heat on her cheeks and neck when she steals a glance at him from the corner of her eye. Jack’s gaze is on her, a slight frown on his face. She knows he’s concerned at her cool greeting but all she can think about is the way his bottom lip is protruding and the way her dream-self had sunk her teeth into that lip and licked her way into his mouth and—

 

“And last business of the day, Robert Kinsey has reservations for tonight. So let’s all be on our best behavior, alright?”

 

Sam chokes on the piece of pancake in her mouth and shoots Jonas a thankful look when he thumps her on the back. 

 

Beside her, Jack is straightening in his chair, scowling, and crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought once we, y’know, got the shiny Michelin star we were exempt from slimy food critics.”

The rest of the _O’Neill’s_ table echoed Jack’s sentiment and Sam can’t help but shift nervously in her chair. Kinsey is a notoriously difficult, grumpy, and persnickety critic. He’s also he only critic who has yet to dine at the newly-starred _O’Neill’s._

 

Hammond raises his hands to calm his crew. “Folks, it’s just another food critic. We’ve hosted them before and we’ll host them again. Front of house, we’ll talk more after breakfast. O’Neill, you’ll handle back of house?”

 

“I’ll handle it now, George.” Jack clears his throat and turns to his team down the table. “Alright, campers! Don’t burn the food, listen for your pickup, and follow my lead. Oh, and when I call Kinsey’s order, if a little spit falls into it or it falls on the floor, I won’t say anything.”

 

“ _Jack…”_ Hammond says, a touch of warning in his tone. 

 

But the executive chef just shrug his shoulders innocently. “Okay, fine, fine. Hold the spit.”

 

There’s a round of laughter around the table and Jack nudges her shoulder. “No, but seriously, Carter,” he says in her ear, voice low. “Spit in his dessert.”

 

Jack’s breath warming her ear and the sound of their joint laughter makes her think, for just a moment, that today might be turning around.

 

______________

 

Except it doesn’t.

 

The starter for her bread for that night’s service doesn’t want to actually _start._ The water she adds to the yeast and honey mixture is too warm and it kills off the yeast. It’s silly, but she feels guilty for killing a perfectly good batch of yeast.

 

On her third batch, it seems like she finally has a good starter. And, if she blushes when Jack overhears her whispering words of encouragement to her yeast and she has to stammer out an explanation, cheeks—once again—red with embarrassment, that’s just her day today. 

 

“I-I talk to my yeast, Chef.”

 

He laughs and shakes his head at her, continues walking to his side of the kitchen. “You’re one of a kind, Carter. One of a kind.”

 

The bread comes out _fine_ , she supposes. But it’s missing that something that makes it special. The texture is a little off and it tastes okay, but it’s not spectacular. She thinks about Kinsey coming that night and imagines the write-up he’ll publish tomorrow: _O’Neill’s is a worthwhile venture but Chef Samantha Carter’s bread and pastries bring it down to the point of simple, pedestrian, mass-market baking._

 

It’s a comedy of errors after that: split cream, rotten strawberries, soft apples, and a caramel that alternately burns and curdles. 

She and her team are in the weeds and, judging from the way Jack and his team are raising their voices and clanking their pans on the savory side of the kitchen, she thinks they may be feeling the pressure for tonight’s service, too.

 

By the time lunch rolls around and the rest of the staff joins them, it looks like they’ve been through war and Janet takes one look at all of them before hurrying around behind the bar and whipping out her favorite bottle of wine and pouring them all a healthy-sized glass. 

 

Lunch is a silent, tense affair and there’s a weird tension over the restaurant as they help themselves to the giant serving dish of lasagna that Jack has prepared for them and the batch of garlic and truffle butter bread that Sam has made. 

 

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud!” Jack’s voice startles them out of their mood and they all look up, utensils mid-air and halfway to their mouth, when he stands and pushes himself up from the table, hands on his hips—ever their leader.

 

“It’s _one_ food critic and I don’t give a damn whatever the hell he prints tomorrow night. We’re a damn good restaurant with a damn fine crew.” He raised his wine glass and, to Janet’s horror, downed it in two gulps. 

 

The combination of Janet’s facial expression and Jack’s words break the tension and a skittering of laughter spreads over the _O’Neill’s_ crew. Sam grins at him, feeling optimistic for the first time all day. 

 

“Carter, you’ve got a little bit of—“ She barely has time to register Jack sitting back down and speaking to her before she feels the pads of his fingers brushing over the curve of her cheek, swiping something sticky away. 

 

And then his fingers—the same fingers that had been on her cheeks only moments before—were in his mouth, his lips wrapping around his fingers and sucking. She stares, open-mouthed and heart racing. 

 

“Salted caramel? Sweet.” He grins, licking his lips. “Literally.”

 

She snorts and ducks her head, willing herself to _not_ think about her dream from last night or the rush of desire she feels at seeing Jack suck his fingers into his mouth. 

 

Except she _does_ think about it and, to her horror and Jack’s delight, she manages to spill half her lasagna down her chef’s jacket. 

 

Things are not looking up.

 

_______________________

 

When service starts, things seem to smooth out just fine. She’s tossed the rotten strawberries in favor for fresh blueberries; her salted caramel torte comes out smooth and silky; and she had a nice, stern talk with her yeast and her bread is finally blooming and proofing the way it should. 

 

Across the way, Jack is red-faced and hustling to expedite the orders and manage the line, but he’s also joking around with Daniel and ribbing Teal’c occasionally when the front-of-house manager swings back into the kitchen to check on things. 

 

Seeing Jack confident and leading his team through service gives her the confidence and energy to do the same and with a renewed sense of vigor, she sets to chopping her herbs for the alternate dessert tonight: orange, mint, and rosemary panna cotta with a crispy shortbread crumble. 

 

It’d been largely inspired by Charlie’s excited ramblings about orange slices and thick, gooey pizza and cookies after baseball games with his teammates. A to-go container had already been set aside for him for Jack to take home. She couldn’t wait to hear what the little boy thought of it. 

 

And then there’s a white-hot sensation of pain in her thumb and her entire hand goes tingly and numb before pain rushes in. Before she looks down, she knows exactly what she’ll find: a deep cut going through the tip of her thumb. 

 

She swears and rushes to the kitchen sink, rinsing her thumb and quickly wrapping it in a towel, applying pressure to stem the flow of blood. The cut is pretty deep and she’s definitely had worse, but there’s a good chance she’s going to need stitches. 

 

But she can’t leave her crew behind and just as she’s deciding what to do, the ticket comes in: “Order in! One torte, one panna cotta for Kinsey!”

 

There’s no time to worry about a rapidly bleeding thumb, now. She throws on a plastic glove and takes charge of her kitchen. It’s time for her to shine. 

 

The desserts are largely already assembled and ready to go—she just needs to plate everything up, do a little quality control, cross her fingers, and send it out. 

 

Except the shortbread cookie crumbles too finely on top and she notices the panna cotta is not quite set and the heat of the kitchen has melted some of the torte. But it’s too late; timeliness is a huge component of service, and she can only hope Kinsey won’t notice.

 

Small technicalities aside, she knows it’s a damn good—and creative—dessert. But that doesn’t make her feel any better when, about ten minutes later, Kinsey’s plates come back barely touched. 

 

And still her thumb bleeds. 

 

________________

 

Later, when service is done and the kitchens are clean and shut down, he finds her sitting in the walk-in fridge, back against a tall rack of heavy whipping cream cartons. Her thumb is wrapped in a thick, heavy bandage and her hands are buried in her hair and she’s working hard to keep tears of frustration at bay. 

 

“Kinda cold in here, don’t you think?” 

 

He kneels in front of her and they both wince at the sound of his knees cracking. She shrugs and looks up at him, pitiful and miserable. 

 

“Kinsey hated the dessert.” Hated _Charlie’s_ dessert. 

 

“Gah! Carter, Kinsey hated everything. He left my steak—a perfectly cooked steak, may I add—and pissed all over Janet’s wine selection. Kinsey’s a crotchety old man with a lot of opinions and nothing to back it up.”

 

She frowns. “But Hammond sounded so worried.”

 

“George worries about everything; that’s why he runs the business side of things.” She must look a little reassured because he flashes her a smile and shifts in front of her, reaching for her bandaged hand. “Now, let me see that.”

 

“I’m fine,” she protests, not wanting him to think she couldn’t handle something as standard as a knife cut in the kitchen. But then her hand is cradled in his and his thumb is sweeping over the bandage that wraps around her thumb and palm. 

 

“Not your night, tonight,” he observes, leaving the door open for her to lay down some of her burdens on his shoulders, if she wants. She considers him, looks between his hands on hers and his brown eyes—warm and soft and open—looking carefully up at her. 

 

“Not my day, more like,” she snorts, hissing softly when his thumb tugs on the bandage and aggravates her wound. 

 

He apologizes quietly and she likes the contrast between the boisterous, loud leader he is in the kitchen and the gentle man he is when it’s just the two of them. Her fingers curl softly around his hand. 

 

“Anything I can do to make it better?” The tone of his voice is suggestive and between his tone, the question, and his thumb rubbing softly back and forth over her palm, she can feel her heart racing and her cheeks flushing in anticipation.

 

She swallows and lets her eyes drop to his lips for a moment before flicking back up to meet his eyes. He catches the movement and grins, shifting forward, still holding onto her hand. 

 

“Not sure there’s much you can do unless you know how to sew stitches.”

 

He considers her for a moment before pulling her palm up to his lips. “I can’t put stitches in, but I have it on excellent authority from Charlie that I’m pretty good as kissing things better.”

 

“O-oh?” She’s suddenly very grateful for the cool temperature in the walk-in fridge because she feels hot and flushed with anticipation.

 

Jack lifts her hand the rest of the way to his lips and presses a soft, barely-there kiss to the place where her thumb and palm meet. His lips are warm against her cool skin and she can’t take her eyes off the place where his lips are on her skin. And then his mouth opens, ever so slightly, and the tip of his tongue licks against her skin. 

“Jack,” she breathes out, curling her fingers up over his jaw. He pulls his lips from her hand and presses her open-palm to his cheek, encouraging her to touch him. 

 

She leans forward, sliding her palm up to cup his cheek more fully, the tips of her fingers finally slipping into the silver-grey strands of his hair. The first press of her lips against his is nothing short of overwhelming and electric.

 

The walk-in fridge is cool and she’s been sitting in here long enough that her lips are cold, so the contrast between her cool lips and his hot ones is enough to set her toes curling in her shoes. He groans into the kiss and presses forward, tongue brushing over the seam of her lips and dipping into her mouth, stroking over every inch of her mouth—over her tongue, her teeth, her cheek, the roof of her mouth. 

 

Sam clung to him, knees falling apart to let him crawl between her legs and press into the kiss more fully. Her arms wrap around his neck and her fingers find their way into his hair while one hand cups her face and the other grips her waist for balance. 

 

He breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against hers, panting softly. “Sam,” he starts. But she doesn’t want to talk. She wants to know if her dream had any basis in reality and so far, he’s doing wonders at washing away a pretty spectacularly bad day. 

 

She tugs him back between her legs and smiles against his lips when he lets out a soft _oof_ against her. For a few minutes, they’re breaking about a dozen health-code violations as they exchange soft, unhurried, languorous kisses. Her hands wander over his chest and abdomen, half-heartedly playing with the buttons on the front of his chef’s jacket and tracing over the stitching over his heart where it says _Chef O’Neill._

 

For his part, he keeps a hand cupped against her cheek, anchoring their mouths together and wanting to keep her close. His other hand is pressed dangerously close between her legs on the floor to stop himself from crushing her. For all that Sam cares, he can crush her against the steel rack and she’d go a happy, happy woman. 

 

And then—because Samantha Carter’s day has turned around significantly for the better, but it’s still a pretty terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day—the door to the walk-in fridge opens up, leaking in light from the kitchen, and illuminating a surprised-looking Daniel Jackson. 

 

Sam and Jack break apart hastily, hands still wandering upon the other’s body and lips swollen and red. The three of them look at each other in shock before Daniel’s eyes widen and he makes a hasty apology before shutting them back in the walk-in. 

 

Sam’s head drops to Jack’s chest as she groans in frustration.

 

“Shit.”

 

 

 


	6. bacon

Service closes down quickly and Sam keeps her head down and studiously does _not_ look across the way into the other side of the kitchen where Jack is barking out directives and cranking the radio up, filling the kitchen with the strains of Wagner, swinging the mop around like an oversized conductor’s baton. 

 

Less than an hour ago, the fingers wrapped around that mop had been brushing over her body and that mouth that was leading and directing his brigade was pressed hungrily against hers, breathing out her name. 

 

After Daniel had interrupted them, he’d stood and offered her a hand up from the cool floor of the walk-in, brushed his fingers over her hair, tucking it behind her ear, before kissing her cheek softly.

 

“I’ll deal with Daniel,” he’d assured her before looking at her nervously, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Sam, I think we should maybe, y’know talk about—“ He made an awkward back and forth gesture between them.

 

Sam swallowed and nodded, thinking of the way her dreams as of late had been filled with thoughts of him. Maybe she was just another in a long line of young chefs who had walked through Jack O’Neill’s life. Maybe the kiss didn’t mean anything and he was going to let her down easy. Maybe he was going to tell her it meant everything. 

 

Either way, things were going to change between them.

 

“Yeah, I think we should.”

 

His answering grin had left her warm long after they parted ways at the entrance of the refrigerator walk-in. 

 

Now there is nothing left to do but tuck mixing bowls and scrapers and rolling pins back under the stainless steel work tables, wipe down the surfaces, kill the lights, and wait. She murmurs her goodbyes to the last of the cleaning crew and grabs her bag and helmet and leaves a hellacious day behind her, locked up behind the doors of _O’Neill’s._

 

The night is cool and it does her flushed skin wonders, helping to kill some of the heat beneath her skin that Jack had stoked earlier with his wandering hands and mouth. 

 

She waits by her bike, rocking her helmet between her hands to work off the excess of nervous energy. Before she can talk herself into just avoiding him, terrified and nervous, he’s there in the doorway, stepping out into the night wrapped in a dark leather jacket and all the swagger of a man who runs one of the best kitchens in the country. 

 

“Heya, Carter,” he greets, grinning at her and stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

 

She can’t help but grin at him, the nerves disappearing in the face of his boyish grin and his presence. There is something about him that settles her and she relaxes against her bike, breathing out unsteadily. 

 

“Hell of a day, chef.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he teases. “It had some pretty good moments.”

 

She thinks of his mouth on hers, the way she’d tugged him between her legs and felt his body warm every part of her, the way she’d sighed his name and threaded her fingers in his hair.

 

“Yeah,” she agrees softly, clearing her throat. “Some good moments.”

 

Jack's eyes go from light and teasing to dark and searching, stepping forward into Sam’s personal space for the second time that night. His hand settles softly on her hip and his voice drops low. “Sam,” he rumbles. “Come home with me.”

 

She presses a hand against his chest, sucking her lip between her teeth. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” 

 

“I’ll be on my best behavior. Scout’s honor,” he promises with a smile. And still, his thumb strokes softly at her hip. She tenses under the sweeping motion of his thumb, suddenly aware of the fact that they’re standing right in front of the restaurant, beneath the light of the streetlamp.

 

“Jack…”

 

He steps away, taking his tantalizing touch with him, and shrugs. “We should talk and I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I’ve got bacon and eggs and tortillas stocked in my fridge. You’ve probably got, what?” He sizes her up before guessing. “A pack of PopTarts and a couple cartons of butter and milk?”

 

She frowns at how close his guess actually is—she ran out of milk a few days ago. As a baker, she had more use for milk, butter, and eggs than veggies and meat. The thought of breakfast was tempting, but not as tempting as being alone with him in his home, a soft comfy bed and a nice sturdy couch well within reach. 

 

And then her stomach rumbles and makes her decision for her. He laughs and pushes her helmet against her body with a press of his finger, teasing and playful.

 

“I’ll see you in ten.”

 

She watches him disappear around the corner where his truck is parked and can’t stop herself from letting her eyes wander over his backside and groans. It’s going to be a long ride. 

 

______________

 

 

When they step inside his home, he takes her jacket and helmet from her and hangs them alongside his own jacket and a smaller green jacket that she figures must be Charlie’s. She watches as his eyes linger over all three of their jackets hanging together, something deep and wanting imprinting upon his face for a moment. 

 

And then he’s turning and grinning at her, rubbing his hands together. “Breakfast! You’re about to see the O’Neill secret ingredient for the perfect omelette, Carter.”

 

She rolls her eyes at him but follows him along the hallway into the heart of the kitchen. The easy way he’s leading them through the night is putting her at ease and, for now, she’s content to put any discussion of _them_ on hold in favor of simply making breakfast.

 

He pulls out a pack of thick-cut bacon, a carton of eggs, butter, and—

 

“Beer? Really?”

 

Jack pops the top on the dark ale and takes a long swig before shrugging. “Don’t knock it ’til you try it, Carter.”

 

He hands her another bottle of beer and the bacon. She raises an eyebrow at him, teasing. “Don’t tell me you put beer in the bacon, too.”

 

“Beer’s for you,” he clarifies with a soft smile. “But you think you can handle the bacon?”

 

She nods and leaves him to cracking and whisking up a few eggs, whipping in as much air as he can manage before sprinkling in a bit of cheese. Sam admires the flex of his arms and the way the muscles move beneath the skin of his forearm and biceps as he works quickly and efficiently. 

 

“Carter,” Jack says with the hint of laughter in his voice, catching her from the corner of his eyes. “You gonna cook that bacon by staring at it or what?”

 

She flushes and takes a drink of her beer before stripping the packaging open and rummaging around in his drawers for a baking sheet. The sound of the whisk against the bowl stops as she pulls the baking sheet out and adjusts the knobs on his oven. 

 

“Whatcha doing?”

 

She turns, baking sheet and bacon in hand, and finds him looking at her with amusement playing about his lips. Sam matches his tilted head and lifts the items in her hand. 

 

“Cooking the bacon?”

 

“The frying pan and stove are that way, though.”

 

Sam grins and takes her place next to him, setting the materials down and getting to work on laying the bacon down on the baking sheet. “Chef O’Neill, Michelin-starred chef, am I about to show you the _proper_ way to cook bacon?”

 

Jack laughs and leans over her shoulder, inspecting her handiwork. She sucks in a breath as his chest brushes over her shoulders and his laugh washes over her. 

 

“Go ahead and teach me, then, Carter.”

 

His lips are close to her ear, voice low and rumbling and she can’t believe she’s feeling the itch and thrum of arousal cooking _breakfast_ with him at almost one o’clock in the morning. He’s close—so close—and there’s a fantasy brewing in the back of her mind about him pressing her ups against the countertop, trapping her with the heat and strength of his body, his mouth working over her skin and—

 

Clearing her throat, she adopts the voice she uses with her new hires and explains her process, hoping the rhythm of teaching will ease the sudden rush of arousal. “Baking the bacon controls heat distribution and cooks everything evenly. But the best part is that you can cook a large batch, uniformly, at one time. _And_ it doesn’t get all, y’know, crinkly.”

 

She wrinkles her nose and he laughs, nudging her shoulder. “ _Crinkly_?”

 

“Aesthetics is important in baking presentation,” she reminds him, sticking her tongue out at him. It feels good to tease and talk with him this way. All bacon slices arranged in just a precise way, she picks up the tray and slides it into the pre-heated oven. She feels his eyes on her as she cleans up and washes her hands. 

 

His gaze is like a warm weight settling on her and she looks up at him, leaning back against the counter and drying her hands. Nervous anticipation settles over her as he steps closer and all thoughts of breakfast and bacon and beer slip from her mind. 

 

She licks her lips and peers up at him from beneath lowered lashes and thinks back to the last few times she was in this kitchen and how badly she wanted him to touch her. It’s exactly what she wants now and when he steps closer and takes the kitchen towel from her hands to drop it on the counter behind her, she sighs in relief. She knows what’s coming next.

 

“Sam,” he says softly, reaching his fingers up to brush against her cheek, his warm body crowding her against the countertop.

 

“Jack,” she echoes back, teasing and curling her hands into the front of his shirt to keep him close. He looks down at her, eyes dark and serious, fingertips slipping into her hair and cradling her head in his palm. 

 

“We kissed today,” he reminds her, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “I know how I feel about that, but I’m a little in the dark on how you’re feeling.”

 

She swallows hard past the butterflies rising in her throat and ducks her head, focusing on the buttons of his shirt and rubbing the tip of her finger over the one in the center of his chest. It feels good to just have his hands on her and her hands on him; soft and intimate and right. 

 

“Why don’t you tell me how you’re feeling and I’ll just ‘ditto’ it?” she grins up at him. He huffs out a laugh and tightens his hand on her hip in rebuke. She drops her forehead to his chest and groans. “I’m not good at talking about this stuff. I don’t have a great track record.”

 

An image of Jonas floats to the surface of her mind but Jack stepping away and stroking his thumb over her jaw and cheek chases it away as quickly as it comes. 

 

“You get why you have to be clear with me here, right, Sam? Why it has to be you? I’m _technically_ your boss and we work together.”

 

“Aren’t you worried about that? What if something goes wrong between us? What if it gets messy?”

 

If she’s being honest, it’s one of the only things stopping her from pursuing him. She loves _O’Neill’s_ and the opportunities it’s afforded her—the first time to lead her own brigade; to create and shape a menu; to join a team that _matters._

 

She doesn’t want to lose that, not when her history of personal relationships looks like a pan of charred brownies. 

 

But Jack just shrugs and smiles at her softly. She likes how gentle he is with her in this, letting her have the lead. It makes her feel wanted and confident. 

 

“I’m not worried about it getting messy,” he says, voice low and rumbling, “because it’s not going to get messy.”

 

He says it in the same confident way he directs his staff; the same way he sends food up to the pass and knows it’s good; the same way that makes her want to follow him into a long service. 

 

“It’s not?” she asks, a small smile on her lips. She tilts her head back to look at him, turns her head into the curve of his hand and lets his hand support her while her hand strokes over his chest and down over his abdomen before settling on his hip. 

 

“It’s not,” he assures her, thumb brushing over her skin. “I’ve wanted you since I found you barefoot in my kitchen, Carter.” He leans in, closes the gap between them and she sucks in a breath when his hot breath warms her lips. “I wanted you even when you brought a _Gordon Ramsay_ cookbook into my—“

 

“Jack? Let it go.”

 

And then she’s pushing herself up onto her toes and winding her arms around his neck and tugging him down, sliding her lips over his and sighing out in relief. His lips are soft and warm against hers, his arms wrapped around her waist and pulling her flush against his body. 

 

Jack walks her back the half-step and she groans when he presses her against the countertop, fulfilling the first fantasy she’d ever had about him. The countertop is cool against her and contrasts with the heat of his body, causing her to gasp into his kiss, mouth parting. 

 

He takes advantage of the opportunity and slides his tongue into her mouth, stroking over her teeth and the roof of her mouth. She curls her fingers into his hair, scrapes at his scalp and drags her hands down over his shoulders and neck and chest. She wants to touch every inch of him. 

 

From the way his fingertips slip beneath her shirt and stroke over the small of her back, tracing along the edge of her waistband, Jack feels the same way.

 

The sensations he creates with his lips and fingers are overwhelming: tongue stroking and teeth nipping, callused and scarred hands dragging over her skin. It’s too much and she clings to him, whimpering and working her mouth over his in return. 

He breaks from her lips and buries his head against her neck, tongue darting out to lick at the veins in her neck, lips latching onto her pulse point. 

 

“Jack,” she gasps out, tilting her head back to give him better access. She feels him grin against her skin, his teeth nipping gently at the straining tendons and muscles. 

 

She’s ready to start working on the buttons of his shirt, ready to hitch her leg up over his hip and get him between her legs to feel him hot and hard there. She wants to know what he tastes like—if he’s hot and salty or tangy and sweet. 

 

“Sam,” he murmurs, easing the speed of his kisses, pulling back and stroking her body softly and slowly. She slips her arms around his waist and molds herself to him, the ardor cooling as he holds her to him in a hug that feels more intimate than a kiss. 

 

“So,” she murmurs into the crook of his neck. “We’re doing this?”

 

He pulls back and presses a soft kiss to her temple. “I think so, Carter.”

 

The oven beeps to signal that their bacon is done and she starts, all thoughts of food having left her mind the second his hands touched her. He kisses her softly, fingers dragging over her hip and abdomen—lingering—until he walks over to the oven to pull the bacon out and turn the oven off. 

 

The kitchen fills with the aroma of bacon and grease, something she’d normally be drooling over. But Jack O’Neill is looking at her like he’d rather eat _her_ and she can still taste him on her lips and there’s nothing she wants less than bacon and eggs right now when he’s an option. 

 

“I’m not so hungry anymore,” she confesses with more impishness and flirtatiousness than she thought she was capable of. 

 

“Oh?” he replies, teasing, coming to stop in front of her. “What are you in the mood for instead? Something off menu?”

 

She rolls her eyes at the lame attempt at chef’s humor and slips her hand into his, sighing at the relief she feels at his skin against hers once more. 

 

“I was thinking a chef special.”

 

He snorts and she flushes, realizing that maybe their sense of humor _is_ a little similar. He brings their joined hands up to his lips and presses a kiss to the place where their hands press together. 

 

“I think I can help with that.” 

 

And with her heart in her throat, she follows him down the dark, cool hallway towards his bedroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well we're closing in on the end of this fic, fam. probably 2 more chapters and then we're wrapping it up!


	7. taste

The trip down the hallway to Jack O’Neill’s bedroom is spent with Sam gasping and grinning into Jack’s mouth every few feet as he stops and spins her into his arms or against the wall. Part of her feels like a new food item that he’s discovered and he wants to coat his palate with the taste of her. 

 

He sips at her lips, tongue dipping into her mouth and sweeping over the roof of her mouth in a way that makes her toes curl and her hands tighten in his wild silver hair. He sucks her tongue into his mouth and scrapes his teeth over her tongue and lips, groaning and surging closer to get a better taste of her. 

 

Sam clings to him and gives as good as she gets. While Jack works her mouth over with his own, her hands are busy learning the feel and texture of his skin. She catalogues the burns and scars and scrapes over his forearms and palms and knuckles and slips a leg over his hip and feels him hot and hard against her. 

 

Jack rips his mouth from hers and presses their foreheads together, his breath hot and damp against her skin. They’re at the doorway of his bedroom and he’s soft with her, now. His palm runs over the expanse of her jean-clad thigh and she shivers at his touch before frowning when he squeezes her thigh gently and tugs her leg free of his hip, settling her back on her own two feet.

 

“Sam,” he murmurs quietly, voice thick with desire and emotion. “This isn’t necessarily the next step. We don’t have to leap from a kiss to _this_.”

 

Hot, rushing affection for this man fills her and she winds her arms around his neck and tugs him down, angling her mouth over his. He makes a muffled noise against her mouth like he’s trying to hold himself back and she feels his hands fist into the hem of her shirt. 

 

She reaches behind her and pushes his bedroom door open, fumbling for a moment, before stepping back deliberately. She tugs him back with her, hands on his forearms, grinning. 

 

“This isn’t the next step from a kiss, Jack,” she explains to him, voice low and a little shaky. She steps away from him with a soft smile and flicks on his bedside lamps and takes in his bedroom: dark greens and browns and creams. It feels cozy and warm and masculine. It’s absolutely Jack O’Neill. 

 

Jack watches her move around his bedroom with dark eyes, mouth parted and lips pink.

 

“If it’s not the next step, then what is it?”

 

She tilts her head and walks back over to him, content to see his tan features illuminated by the soft yellow light of the lamps. Her palms slide over his t-shirt covered abdomen and she bites her lip at the way he shudders under her touch. 

 

She thinks to the way he taught her how to cook because she asked; thinks about the way he looked with flour dusting over his cheeks and hair as he grinned at her in the middle of the night as she baked cookies with his son; thinks about the way he saved her a seat at every _O’Neill’s_ team meeting and the way he leaned against her and murmured snarky comments under his breath just to make her smile. 

A hundred moments—eyes meeting from across the kitchen, the rush of butterflies after waking up from a dream about his mouth, his confidence in her that she could lead a Michelin-starred kitchen, his work ethic and his love for his son—all of these moments flash across her mind until a single image of Jack O’Neill floats to the surface: a man she respects and is on her way to loving. 

 

She shuffles closer, fits their feet together like the teeth of a zipper, and slides her hands up over his body, tugging his shirt up and over his head as she goes. 

 

Finally, she is sure—so sure—that this man is what she wants and there’s no reason, absolutely no reason at all, to not have him, to not trust him with herself. 

 

“This is inevitable,” she says. It’s the last coherent thing they say for a while.

 

Her words set something loose inside of him and he hauls her against him with a groan, slipping his hands beneath her own t-shirt and stroking over the soft, warm skin of her lower back, fingertips tracing over the waistband of her pants and dipping beneath the fabric teasingly. 

 

She rocks against him, pushes her hips against his in response and groans at the feel of his calluses and scars catching on her smooth skin. Goosebumps erupt over her body and he pulls back, breaking the kiss and grins at her. 

 

The shirt is lifted from her body with careful, reverent hands and she shakes as his head ducks and kisses over her now-exposed abdomen, over the swell of her breasts, and up along the lines of her collarbones. Her shirt joins his on the floor and he walks them back until the edge of the bed hits her knees and they go sprawling down over the soft comforter. 

 

He kisses her giggles away and she groans into his mouth, legs parting and wrapping around his waist, tugging him down against her. Even through the thick fabric of their jeans, she can feel him hot and hard against her center and her mouth waters at the thought of him. 

 

She rolls him and settles against him, ass against his straining erection, and simply looks down on him, using the tip of her finger to trace the line of his brow and the bridge of his nose. He nips at her finger and the look in his dark brown eyes—intense, searching, confident—steals her breath.

 

His palms slide up over her abdomen and cover her breasts through her bra, tugging the cups down and exposing her sensitive skin to the cool air of his bedroom. She groans as his calluses catch against her puckered nipples and she reaches behind her back to unhook her bra. 

 

As the fabric falls away, Jack struggles up on his elbows and nuzzles at the valley between her breasts, dragging his lips over the sensitive skin. “Y’know, Carter,” he murmurs, teeth and tongue and lips working over her left breast while his hand works over her right. “I was kinda looking forward to getting that bra off you.”

 

He wraps his lips around her nipple and she gasps, hands going to the riot of silver hair and holding his mouth against her, pushing herself into his touch. 

 

“Next time,” she gasps. “God, Jack…”

She writhes and rocks against him as he works her over with his mouth. The friction of his hands and mouth on her breasts and sensitive nipples in combination with the straining, hot friction of his hot cock pressing up against her through a layer of denim has her shaking. 

 

“Please,” she begs, hips rocking with increasing speed against him. She drags her nails through the sparse hair of his chest, catching and tugging his own nipples. He bites down on her skin in surprise and she hisses.

 

His kisses soften and he presses an apologetic kiss to her skin before gently rolling her under him, pinning her against the mattress. 

 

“Do you know,” he murmurs, kissing his way down her body, pausing to lick and nip at her flushed skin and the jut of her hips and the soft skin of her belly, “just how long I’ve wanted to taste you, Sam?”

 

She sighs softly at his words, lifting her hips up in response and lets her legs fall open. She runs a gentle hand through his hair, encouraging and guiding him. His words stoke a fresh fire in her, her heart racing. 

 

His mouth gets to the edge of her jeans and he plants a kiss where denim and skin meet. His hands work at the button and zip of her jeans, dragging the rough fabric down over her skin, taking her soaked panties down with them. 

 

She is bare before him, naked against his comforted and open and waiting for him to return to her. He leans over her, kisses her deeply, tongue dipping into her mouth once more and his fingers slip down her body and against her sex, stroking through silky wet flesh. 

 

His fingers are hot against her in the same way that his tongue is against her mouth and she bucks against him. “Jack,” she gasps, eyes flying open and fingers clutching at his shoulders, nails scratching along his back and drawing him closer. “Please,” she begs.

 

“Tell me you want this, Samantha.”

 

His thumb works against her clit, rubbing in small, tight circles and his fingers dip and drag through her wetness, pressing against her opening. She is embarrassingly wet and she keens and whines and pushes against his fingers, body demanding more. 

 

She spends every day of her life ordering those around her, directing them and telling them _exactly_ what she wants. But in the face of Jack O’Neill’s hands and mouth against her, she is wordless. 

 

“Sam,” he says again, voice forceful. “Tell me.”

 

“Yes,” she gasps out. “God, please, Jack, just—“

 

And then his mouth is on hers, stealing her pleas from her lips before kneeling down between her legs, pulling her to the edge of the bed and settling her legs on either side of his head. 

 

Sam’s vision blacks out at the first swipe of his tongue against her sex, the broadside of his tongue stroking and licking and flicking at her, intent on drawing out as much pleasure as possible. His fingertips grip her thighs to keep her from shaking and bucking against him and she realizes that he’s spreading her out before him, intent on opening her up so he can taste her better. 

 

He’s a rush of fingers and lips and tongue and teeth, all working together to split her apart and put her back together again. When his tongue goes taut and flicks at her clit over and over again, she sobs and begs for him to fill her. 

 

Jack grins against her damp curls, breathes the scent of her in, and slips two thick fingers inside of her. 

 

“Christ, Jack.” 

 

The words are ripped from the back of her throat like she was born to scream his name, to beg for him to touch her. His lips wrap around her clit and suck and suck and suck as he pumps his fingers in and out of her, curling the tips of his fingers against her and stroking the spongy tissue of her walls, calling forth her orgasm. 

 

“Come for me, Sam,” he rumbles against her. She looks down between her legs and sees him looking up at her from his kneeling position, his mouth and chin and upper lip glistening with her fluids. His dark, brown eyes are practically black and his hair is mussed and wild from her hands. 

 

Carefully, slowly, intentionally, he keeps his eyes on hers and lowers his mouth back to her clit and lets his teeth graze over the bundle of nerves and twists his wrists and fingers inside of her before setting a punishing pace. He drives his fingers in and out of her, sets his tongue upon her and never once lets his eyes leave hers. 

 

When she comes against his fingers and mouth, she wraps her legs around his head and pushes her hips against him and screams his name. After months of vibrators and her own fingers, Jack O’Neill feels like a fucking gift. 

 

He kisses his way up her thighs and stomach and neck, kissing her softly through the aftershocks of his actions. She wraps herself around him, grinds against his denim-clad body, and kisses the taste of herself out of his mouth. 

 

“Sam,” he groans, dropping his mouth to the crook of her neck when her hands wander between their bodies and stroke him through his jeans. 

 

“Off,” she demands wth an impetuous grin. He raises an eyebrow and presses a series of kisses along her jaw and lips and nose before pushing himself off the bed and standing before her, hands unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. 

 

Sam pushes herself up on her elbows, unabashedly naked and watching the forthcoming show. He grins, pausing his actions. 

 

“Enjoying the show, Carter?”

She grins and settles more firmly on her elbows. “Oh, oui, chef.”

 

His eyes go dark at the use of _chef_ and she files that away for later, thoughts of a spatula and a chef’s coat and chocolate syrup filing her mind…

 

And then he’s kicking his jeans and boxer-briefs away and standing before her, naked and cock hard and ready for her. She licks her lips and drops her gaze down to him, takes in the size and girth of him and her imagination goes haywire at the anticipation of him against her tongue, pressing into her body, filling her. 

 

She reaches for him, tugging him down onto the bed and on top of her. It shouldn’t feel _this_ good, just having him and his heavy weight press down on top of her and into the mattress. But it’s undeniably comforting and sexy and intimate to just have his body against hers, coarse wiry hairs scratching against her soft skin, her curves fitting in against the hard, flat planes of his body. 

 

Her legs wrap around his waist and he settles against her, his cock pressing at her opening and thrusting and grinding lazily against her slick sex. 

 

Sam’s hands wander over his back and over the curve of his ass, pulling him in closer against her and sighing in relief at the feel of him. 

 

“I want to taste you, too,” she confesses, voice throaty and muffled against his neck. He groans and jerks against her at her words. She tries to roll him over but he drags her hands up over her head and pins them to the mattress. 

 

“If your mouth touches me now, sweetheart, God, I’m not gonna last.”

 

Feminine pride fills her at his words and she nips at his neck and jaw before kissing him softly. “Next time?”

 

“Yes,” he groans, palming her breast and gripping her hip. With her hands free, she slips them into his hair—she will never get enough of the feel of his hair between her fingers—and anchors his mouth to hers. 

 

Their hips swivel together, pressing and rocking. The head of his cock drags through her wetness and nudges alternately at her entrance and at her clit. The combination of sensations and the thought of their fluids mixing against her thigh and slit have her shaking and her skin flushing a bright pink. 

 

“Please,” she begs, legs falling on either side of him and opening herself to him.

 

He kisses the swells of her breasts and sits up on his knees, taking himself in hand and stroking his thumb lazily over the head. “Condom,” he mutters to himself, frowning and moving to get off the bed and head for the bathroom.

 

But Sam wraps her legs around him, stopping him. “I’m on birth control,” she assures him. “And I’m clean. I just want to feel you—just you.”

 

“Fuck, Sam,” he swears, falling against her and burying his head into the crook of her neck and guiding himself inside of her. 

 

She hisses at the feel of him inside of her, stretching her and filling her in a way she hasn’t been in ages. They’re joined together and they both breathe unsteadily and shakily at the sensation, hands wandering and stroking softly. 

 

As Jack pushes forward, she tightens her legs around his waist and pulls him deeper, gasping and sighing his name. And then it’s a flurry of thrusts and pulling, wandering hands, the sound of skin slapping against skin, the gentle sounds of Jack pushing and pulling himself inside of her body. 

 

His chest presses against hers as he fucks her and the sensation of his chest hair rasping against her nipples, his cock inside her, his mouth on the cords and tendons of her neck, his hands bracing themselves on the mattress next to her head—it’s all too much for her and she winds her legs around his hips and keeps him close against her before groaning and flipping them over so she can be on top. 

 

He looks up at her with dark, searching eyes and runs a hand over her flexing thighs as she begins to ride him, sitting back on his cock and taking him deeper inside of her, head thrown back and palms braced on his chest for balance. 

 

“That’s it, Sam,” he encourages, hips flexing up and pressing inside of her deeper. “Take what you need.”

 

Rough, callused palms slide over her knees and thighs and hips and abdomen. She shakes and sighs at the feel of him squeezing her breasts and then dropping down between the apex of her thighs and stroking at her sex in time with her rocks and thrusts, thumb brushing against her clit over and over again. 

 

She tightens her walls around him, drawing him in deeper, and she let out a throaty, satisfied chuckle when he groans and swears, jerking up against her. 

 

He pants out that he’s close and she’s not much further behind him, still sensitive and shaky from her earlier orgasm. She rolls them again, tucking her head against him and grinning. 

 

Nipping at the hollow of his throat, she licks at his jaw and mouth and wraps her arms around his neck, plastering herself to him. 

 

“Come, Jack.”

 

He groans and loses control, then, pounding inside of her, sweat glistening against his hairline and at the small of his back. Their bodies are wet and slippery and messy but neither one cares when the sensations feel this good, pleasure coiling up from their centers and spreading out through their chest and fingertips and toes. 

 

Jack comes first, hips stuttering as heat and fluid empty inside of her. Sam follows close behind and comes at the sensation and feel of him coming inside of her, the thought of him—just him—filling her. 

 

They’re sticky and slick and shaking and flushed, hands lazily stroking over heated skin. Jack leaves her in bed with a gentle kiss to her neck and abdomen and jaw and heads for the bathroom, returning a few minutes later with a wet washcloth and he sets to work carefully cleaning her sex, wiping away the fluid that leaks from her body—his fluid, his mark on her. 

 

She drags a hand through his hair and takes the cloth from him, tossing it across the room to settle on their abandoned clothes. 

 

Jack smooths his hand over her hair and presses absentminded kisses to her hairline, stroking the sweaty blonde strands from her forehead. 

 

“So,” he says finally, tugging her close and under the thick, heavy comforter to ward off the chills that had settled upon them. “That happened.”

 

She giggles and turns her face into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist and throwing a leg over his hip and thigh. “Yeah,” she agrees with a gentle kiss to his chest. “It did.”

 

“And we’re,” he dragged out, gesturing loosely between the two of them, “okay with that?”

 

“More than okay,” she confirms, snuggling closer. 

 

They lay there quietly for a moment and her eyes feel heavy with sleep, the sound of Jack’s pounding heart lulling her into a delicious sensation of relaxation and comfort, the warmth of his body and the steady stroking hand along her back making her feel lazy and satiated. 

 

As she’s drifting off to sleep, her dream of him now a reality, a future of endless possibilities stretched out before them, a sound interrupts her slumber. 

 

A loud, rumbling, growling stomach. 

 

Jack laughs and presses a kiss to the top of her head, squeezing her shoulder. 

 

“You want that breakfast _now_ , Carter?”

 

She thinks about future breakfasts in bed, his hands on her body, this man in her bed and in her life, and she grins softly, feeling loopy and warm, and kisses his bicep before sliding out of bed and slipping his shirt on over her naked body. 

 

“Yes, chef.”

 

Later, when they’re sitting at the bar in his kitchen and exchanging bites of egg and bacon in between soft kisses, she decides joining the _O’Neill’s_ staff might be the best thing she’s ever done in her entire life. 


	8. epilogue

Jack knows he should be watching his son’s little league team run the bases of the small diamond on the field; knows he should be rooting and hollering and giving Charlie the thumbs up and waving his cap around in the mid-afternoon sun. 

 

Except, Samantha Carter is pressed up against the chicken-wire fencing separating the crowd from the game and is giving the home plate umpire an earful, waving her hands and hat at the middle-aged man about getting his eyes checked because, “What do you mean Charlie was out? He was safe by a mile! Unbelievable!”

 

Life with Sam is startling easy and it’s moments like this—her giving a little league ump the riot act on behalf of his son—makes it even easier. He grins and jumps off the metal stands and slings an arm around her shoulder, planting a kiss to the side of her neck. She tastes hot and salty and throws a glare over her shoulder as Jack tugs her back to the stands, a smirk on his face. 

 

The other parents are pursing their lips at her antics but Jack is just proud. Sam is still grumbling when he gets her to take her seat next to him and he distracts her by stripping her of her hat—the one with Charlie’s little league logo on it—and turning it around so it sits backwards on her head.

 

When she turns her head to protest, he dips his head and kisses her softly. Something about the sight of her defending his son, showing up to his little league game on her day off, it’s got his chest feeling hot and tight and like something big and momentous is trying to crawl out from beneath his skin, ready to explode at any moment.

 

Her lips are hot and chapped from the afternoon sun and her tongue against his is brief and fleeting but it sends chills racing through him, goosebumps pimpling over his arms and neck. Pulling away with a playful nip at her bottom lip, he nuzzles her nose. 

 

“It’s just little league, Carter. I don’t think the World Series is at stake.”

 

She frowns and sidles closer to him, pressing herself to his side shoulder to hip to ankle, and slides a hand over his denim-clad thigh. “It’s the principle of the matter! Charlie was safe and—“

 

“Charlie has enough runs this season that his stats aren’t hurting. And,” he continues, cutting of her protest once more. “I have a feeling seeing you ready to climb the fence on his behalf will be the thing he remembers most about today anyway.”

 

Sam’s cheeks pink and she ducks her head, pleased. “You think so?”

 

He squeezes her shoulder and kisses the side of her head. “I know so.”

 

There’s only a handful of innings left and they drag on as much as any little league game does with dropped and badly thrown balls and more groundouts than Jack can count. At one point, he catches Charlie’s eye from the dugout and his son grins broadly at them both, waving a single worn, brown glove in acknowledgement. 

 

Jack smiles and raises his own hand and rolling his eyes when Charlie pretends to vomit in his glove when Jack presses a kiss to the crown of Sam’s head to get her attention. Sam fake vomits right back at him and that aching, hot thing in his chest threatens to claw out of his chest. 

 

______________

 

He and Sam had been doing this thing—they hadn’t really thought to label it—for almost six months now. Jack thought it would have been hard to mix business and pleasure, maybe too much to see Sam for a full service, to technically be her boss, and then take her home and lay her out beneath his body in his bed. 

 

Except having Sam with him almost every moment of his day isn’t a problem at all. She settles something anxious inside of him with a smile, a touch. On days when he’s cranky and yelling at the staff, she grits her teeth and sets her jaw and gets to work on her side of the kitchen before throwing a bread roll that hadn’t made it beyond inspection at his head. It makes his line relax and Jack rips a chunk out of the roll and chews on it thoughtfully, nodding his head at her. 

 

At home, she lets him unwind and calls him out on his bullshit when he needs it. She takes him to bed and straddles his waist and presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to his neck and the underside of his jaw, and tells him he was an ass today. 

 

He makes it up to her with his wandering, insistent hands and a mouth that won’t quit. She teases him, panting and writhing beneath him, her legs hooked over his shoulders as his mouth works over her sex, “You don’t apologize to all of your staff this way, right, Chef?”

 

He gets serious then, kissing the inside of her thigh and the jut of her hip, and covers her body with his, placing a gentle kiss to her mouth. “Only you, Sam.”

 

They fight—of course they fight. For a few weeks, he had been recruited to help jumpstart a new restaurant, _Edora_ , that his investor’s group had heavily invested. His absence at _O’Neill’s_ meant an increased pressure of responsibility on her and Teal’c and Daniel to pick up the slack while Jack spent night after night in the newly-renovated space, determined to make _Edora_ a success. 

 

In the end, it was Sam who had dragged him home and into the steaming hot shower and into bed. “Enough,” she murmured softly into the warm skin of his chest. “I don’t want this to be a problem.”

 

One look at her red eyes and drawn features had been enough to convince him: he had spent too much time away from his home, from his restaurant, from her.

 

But even as they fight about the little things—like the appropriate way to cook bacon or whether or not to sift flour before use—there is soft kisses and touches, date nights, family outings with Charlie to the park or movies or a pillow fort in the living room just because they can. 

 

She is the missing piece he didn’t know was missing and he has no intention of letting her go any time soon. 

 

______________ 

 

The umpire stands and cracks his back and waves his arms and calls out in a deep, booming voice, “Game!”

 

It’s the signal for dozens of kids to rush the field, whooping and hollering and tossing their caps in the air like they’ve just won Game 7 of the World Series. The parents stand to the side of the field as handshakes and _good jobs_ are exchanged before the team meets up together for a post-game talk. 

 

Sam hoists the cooler bag onto her shoulder and hops off the stands, waiting for Jack to join her. It had been the O’Neill’s turn to bring and provide post-game snacks for the team and Sam had leapt at the opportunity to contribute. 

 

Jack slips his hand into hers, giving it a gentle squeeze, and follows her along the dirt-and-grass path to where Charlie’s team and coach are waiting. 

 

“You just got them orange slices and Gatorades, right, Carter?”

 

She gives him a look that tells him unequivocally that is _not_ what she brought and lifts the strap of the cooler bag a little higher on her shoulder with a mischievous (and suspicious) pep in her step. 

 

He groans. “Sam, please tell me you just got them orange slices

She turns and tugs him forward into her stride, pressing a sloppy, almost-missed kiss to his lips, just catching his bottom lip and chin. “You’re dating a world-class pastry chef. Of course I didn’t just get them orange slices.”

 

“Orange supremes, then?”

 

Except Sam just laughs and winks before joining the crowd of players and parents, allowing the cooler bag to drop to her feet. Charlie gets to her first and wraps his arms around her middle. Jack feels that punch-you-in-the-chest feeling when Sam ruffles his hair and presses an affectionate kiss to the sweaty mop of brown hair hiding beneath his son’s ballcap. 

 

“What’d you bring, Sam?”

 

Jack knows her well enough to see that she’s inordinately pleased with herself and when she unzips the cooler bag with a flourish and pulls out tray upon tray of beautifully and ornately decorated macarons. 

 

Each macaron is shockingly and perfectly round and white with tiny, dotted curved lines rounding out the sides. 

 

The kids let out small gasps of pleasure and appropriately _ooh_ and _ahh_ over Carter’s creations. He steps into the swarming crowd of kids to help her hand out the macarons. Lowering his voice, he lets his lips brush against the shell of her ear. 

 

“Macarons that look like baseballs? Don’t you think that’s a _little_ overboard, Sam?”

 

She tilts her head back and kisses his cheek softly. “Benefits of dating me, O’Neill. Your son gets top-notch baseball snacks from here on out.”

 

He swallows harshly at the thought of _here on out:_ Sam at this game and all future games with him and his son; Sam in his bed and his life and his house and his restaurants; Sam working by his side to make him a better man and a better chef. _Sam._

 

Sliding an arm around her waist and burying his nose and lips against the side of her neck, hiding away from the weight of emotion pushing down on him at the realization that she is it—she is everything—he presses soft kisses to the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

 

Gathering himself, he presses a kiss to her temple and breathes her in. Here, in the hot afternoon sun in the middle of little league diamond, his son a few feet away happily munching on baseball-shaped macarons and fresh-squeezed lemonade, Jack knows he cannot keep the feeling inside his chest there anymore. 

 

“Hey, Sam?”

 

She hums and leans back against him, grinning absentmindedly at a little boy from the other team who had wandered in amongst Charlie’s team and asked shyly for a baseball cookie. She gave it to him freely and Jack’s hand on her hip tightened as she smiled fondly at the little boy’s retreating back. 

 

“I love you.”

 

Beneath his hands, he feels her still and stop breathing before turning completely in his arms, hands traveling up the front of his tee and winding around his neck, stroking playfully at the sweaty strands of hair at the nape of his neck. 

 

“Oh yeah? Gordon Ramsay cookbooks and all?”

 

He tugs her closer, their feet fitting together like the teeth of a zipper. “We all have our flaws, I suppose,” he teases. 

 

She tilts her head and grins up at him, almost as blinding as the summer sun. Her body is warm and solid against his and he slips his fingers beneath the baseball tee sporting his son’s little league logo, callused fingertips stroking along the line of her waistband where jeans meet skin. 

 

“Hey, Jack?” she echoes back to him, teasing. The breath catches in his chest and he lets his fingers press into her skin. 

 

“I love you, too.”

 

He kisses her then, tugging her forward against his chest and pours the heavy, elephantine weight of his emotions into this kiss. He loves this woman and she, inexplicably, loves hims back. 

 

Charlie gags and groans and tells them to get a room before throwing sunflower seeds at them. “Dad! Sam! C’mon, you guys. God, you’re so embarrassing.”

 

With a soft hum against his lips, Sam pulls away first, wiping her thumb over his bottom lip and keeping an arm around his waist. Jack tucks her against his side and glares at his son.

 

“Charlie? Eat your damn cookie.”

 

Except he’s grinning so wide his face actually hurts and when Sam lifts his own macaron up to his lips, he takes it with a groan, lips brushing over her fingers. It's delicious—white chocolate and raspberry and perfectly baked, like he knew it would be. 

 

It’s a good day, he decides as Sam pops the rest of the macaron into her mouth and grins up at him.

 

He doesn’t need a Michelin star when he has this: _Sunshine, macarons, baseball, Charlie, and Sam._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's all folks! hey this is my first completed like, grown-up, multi-chap fic! i did it! i will probably add on "bonus" chapters as I think of scenarios--if i think of scenarios. but thanks for sticking with this and taking a chance on an AU!


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